


Wizard Red

by dilapidatedream



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, M/M, Pedophilia, Psychological Horror, Underage Sex, Weasleycest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:12:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1422652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilapidatedream/pseuds/dilapidatedream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Ginny dreams. But is she really dreaming at all? (And maybe the dreamworld bleeds into reality.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wizard Red

When Ginny dreams, she dreams of home.

One, down, two, three, stop—and she is standing on the ground floor of the Burrow, looking around.  Upon the mantle stands Mum’s clock, and she knows it is a dream for Bill’s hand is stationary with the rest at the “Home” notch when she very well knows he is traveling for work.  She stares defiantly at it, willing the hand to crank slowly towards the “Abroad” setting, so engrossed that she doesn’t notice someone’s there until a hand rests gently on her shoulder.

Bill is there when she turns around, and he gives her a toothy grin as he flicks hair, the same flaming shade as hers, out of his eyes.  Wizard red; not the carroty or rusty shade Muggles have, but pure, brilliant _red_.  Blood red, like pureblood, and Bill is kissing her.

She always idolized Bill.  He was so much older and so much cooler than she ever was (or will be), and the girls loved him and his teachers loved him, and somehow, she loved him, too.  But that’s natural, because siblings love each other.  Yet she finds it odd that he can look at her, stuck in the awkward throes of prepubescent growth, and see something beautiful—because his lips curve and his eyes twinkle, and she

_wants it to stop, because this is dirty and wrongwrongwrong how he smiles at her and she smiles back_

doesn’t feel worthy.

She wishes he were gone, but she is lying on her bed with him on top of her.  When Bill disappears beneath the sheets, her hands clench the bedding so tightly, they pale further.  And she watches as they grow whiter and _whiter_ —then suddenly, they are transparent, stained red like the sheets beneath her, and everything is so _red_.

When she wakes up, she finds she can’t breathe and her hands have gone numb with the strength at which she grips the white sheets.  She stares at them, wondering whether the skin will fade to transparency once more and she will see the blood that lurks beneath.

At breakfast, still in naught but her cotton dressing gown, Mum passes her the photo that accompanied the letter Bill sent.  She stares at it intently and watches as her brother waves cheerily at her from a backdrop of tall pillars and dusty rubble, a bit of dirt smudged upon his aristocratic nose.  He even has the audacity to wink at her, but before she can wonder guiltily whether it was meant solely for her,

_because she is special and beautiful and Bill really does love her, she’s sure of it_

Ron has already snatched the photo from between her hands, and Bill is winking at him as well.

\-----

One, two, three—and the clock chimes midnight, one of those Muggle devices that Dad has smuggled home.

The kitchen is dark but for a strip of moonlight crawling in through the open window.  She stands in the center, and if she tries hard enough, she can make out some of the flowers in the front garden.  The gnomes are dancing around and pulling them out, clumps of hydrangea and lilac caught between their grubby fingers.  Mum will be furious in the morning and demand that the boys degnome the garden once more, even though she is sure they just degnomed it two days ago, so this must be a dream.

The sound of the front door opening quietly startles her, and a pan is ready in her hand to fend off the intruder (her wand is on her nightstand).  Charlie’s robust face appears in the doorway and he looks bewildered for a moment before laughing and asking whether she’ll pummel him with the saucepan or not.  She’s furious enough to almost do it, but she finds herself laughing and it’s too late now.

Charlie has grass stains on his knees and she knows he’s been flying.  She wonders how he got home and whether Mum and Dad know he’s here or not, but when she opens her mouth to ask, he presses a fingertip to her lips

_and she wants to bite down on the flesh and demand he stop because he’s making her nervousafraidanxiousgiddy and she doesn’t like it at all_

to silence her.  The words die a calm death in her mouth, their grave desecrated with Charlie’s tongue as he kisses her.

The countertop digs into her back and they’re making so much noise—we have to be quiet, Charlie, or else

_they might know why, they might know and then it won’t be pretty and nothing will be right and the house will be in ruin like the garden_

Mum and Dad might hear!  But Charlie doesn’t reply; just strokes her neck and her eyes find the ceiling as his fingers, calloused and rough with Quidditch, slide across the thin skin over her ribs.  They feel like sandpaper on her; so rough although the touch is soft, but it hurts nonetheless and she cries because she’s afraid she’s bleeding and bleeding and won’t _stop_ —but she doesn’t want to melt onto the kitchen floor, because Mum wouldn’t approve of that.

The sheets are damp beneath her when she awakes and she panics, irrationally afraid that she has indeed melted.  When she looks down only to find a large bloodstain on her pristine sheets, she lets out a loud shriek that causes the ghoul in the attic to bang against the pipes gleefully.  She continues screaming and crying and clutching at her stomach and wishing she would stop _bleeding_ until Mum rushes into her room to see what’s the matter.  The tears only stop when Mum tells her that this is natural and happens to every girl as she turns into a woman, but she doesn’t believe her and all she can see is red.

Later, when Charlie floos over for Sunday dinner, he gives her a brief hug before ignoring her for the rest of the evening, and she’s sure she must hate him.  Fred and George ask soon after why she’s sulking, but she pretends not to hear so they tease her. 

\-----

One and two, three more—and the last letter is written and she’s finally done, crossing the T and dotting her final I.  She’s in Hogwarts robes and she places the parchment inside a folder marked as “Transfiguration.”  She knows this is a dream because this is summer (it has to be) for she is home.  The warm sunlight streams into her bedroom in the Burrow and pools in the Ginny-shaped dip in the center of the bed.

Percy appears in the doorway, looking rumpled and strangely enough, wearing Hogwarts robes as well.  He squints at her through his glasses for a bit and she just blinks back at him.

When he asks, Ginny informs him that no, she has not seen his Head Boy badge.  Perhaps it would interest him to check with the twins; they might have taken it.  He nods absently for a moment before sliding inside and shutting the door, saying he will ask them later.  She nods at this and continues putting her books away when she feels the mattress shift besides her.

She doesn’t ask, just eyes Percy’s shaking fingers as they reach out to touch her hand.  They fold over her own and she

_hates him for being so timid, for making her feel like a child again, for doing everything and nothing all wrong_

returns the gesture, so they sit holding hands in the afternoon sun on her bed.

Percy’s hands are cold even against her own, as if they are trying to freeze her with their embrace.  The sun offers no comfort, and she shivers as he falls asleep next to her, leaving a Percy-shaped dip next to the Ginny-shaped one.

The room is plunged in darkness when she wakes up, shivering and curling in the blanket for warmth.  It’s neither morning nor afternoon, and she rolls over to try to sleep again before she jerks into sitting position.  She turns on the lights and her eyes water at the abrupt change, but she

_feels like crying, and perhaps that is why her eyesight is blurry_

ignores the discomfort as she rips the sheets off of her chilled body to stare down at the mattress.  There is no Percy-shaped dip next to her; all she can see are her scrawny legs.  Her hands shake slightly on the sheets and she has the urge to rip out her messily painted nails, bright red and chipping and gaudywhorishugly—but she just laughs and cries and cannot sleep for the rest of the night.

Mum asks her if she is ill that morning and she, not knowing what to say, nods numbly.  Percy admonishes her from across the breakfast table, saying good health allows more time for study and that she should be more careful.

\-----

One, two, pause, three—and no more knocking is required for the door to the twins’ room is opening.  Mum has sent her up with cookies and milk for the boys, her hands weighed down with the tray.  But she knows this is a dream because these are lemon cookies, and Fred and George hate lemon.

Once the door is half open, Fred blinks owlishly at her and then down at the tray in her hands before George’s hand slides out through the space beneath Fred’s arm to snatch a cookie.  Fred grins and grabs a cookie himself, inviting her in through a mouthful of crumbs and insisting she put the tray down.  She can’t see anywhere she could possibly place it down, though, as the room is cluttered with all sorts of bubbling vials and harmful looking gadgets.  George laughs at her and pries her fingertips off of the plate and takes it from her, balancing it precariously on top of an already wobbly stack of schoolbooks (dusty with neglect, she assumes).

Four cookies each and two tall glasses of milk later, she reaches for the tray to bring it down for Mum.  Her wrist is grabbed halfway and she blinks up at the twins, both smiling and Fred sporting a milk mustache.  She kindly points this out to him, and instead of Fred licking it off himself, George leans over and does it for him.  She watches as they kiss, and Fred nuzzles the clump of freckles on George’s neck as George asks her whether she would like to join them.  She

_wants to tell them no, that they can have fun by themselves because she doesn’t want any part of this dirtyoutrageousenticing business, but wants to run away, really, she does_

nods a bit and so they pull her over, and somehow the door has been shut.

They laugh as her hair brushes over their pale skin like a red carpet, and she feels awkward pressed tightly between the two.  They are so warm and she’s afraid she’s boiling against their skin,

_afraid of the heat, a guilty conscience, because the heat will only burn away all those pretty, pretty lies_

but then she’s blinking groggily and there is warm water on her face.  She realizes that she’s fallen asleep while reading at her desk and summer rain is blowing in through the open window.  She stares out at the grey, dreary sky, wondering what woke her when she hears a loud bang from upstairs and Mum’s angry voice yelling at the twins.  Their laughter crawls down the stairs and winds up her spine, and she squeezes her eyes shut so she doesn’t have to see the bright red of her hair any longer.

\-----

One, up, two, left, three—and another swish and the bauble dances absently above her head, twinkling in the light of dusk.  She uses her wand to guide it around in a circle, and this has to be a dream, because she’s underage and not supposed to use magic out of school.

Ron is lying next to her out in the backyard.  They must look rather ridiculous, all bright red upon green, something like a Christmas decoration.  He lifts his own wand and with a swish and flick, the bauble careens out of its waltz and bobs back and forth between their heads.  Her eyes follow it lazily, shiny and shimmering

_like a memento of innocence, and Ron must really know more than he should, that deceptively smartdeviousstupid boy_

in the evening glow, reflecting their faces.  Ron must be bored of it for he lets it drop, and it lies dull and uninteresting in between blades of green.

The grass prickles her knees and palms as she crawls over towards one of Mum’s daisy bushes.  The flowers are red (Mum always did love the color) and delicate, and her fingers snap their thin necks with startling ease.  She gathers the flower corpses and begins weaving them together, making a crown just like the ones she used to wear as a child.  A shadow appears behind her but she ignores Ron as she continues threading the flowers together, bits of natural dye staining her fingertips as she bruises the petals.

Just as she finishes, Ron reaches around her and grabs the crown out of her hand.  She lets him and watches his shadow idly in the grass as his arms lift, and she can feel the flowers resting on her head.  If she had a mirror, she would see them blending against the red of her hair, the centers looking like so many yellow eyes.  She never asked

_to become the porcelain doll, to wear flowers and kisses and blood red velvet fit for kings, because it doesn’t feel natural_

for him to lean down and kiss her neck, but he does and she lets him.

Mum is bustling around her room when she wakes, bringing with her a flowery scent, and she automatically thinks of red daisies before she realizes it’s just Mum’s perfume.  She tells Mum not to worry, that she didn’t wake her up, and stumbles out into the hallway towards the bathroom.  Through half-open eyes she realizes too late and already Ron and she have collided, and he is groaning across from her as she rubs her sore bottom.

His glare is dampened by the fact that he has red-stained tissue shoved up his nose, and the bathroom door slams shut as he tends to his bloody nose.  She wonders absently, still sitting on the floor, if the spot of blood that somehow got on her fingertip is Ron’s.

\-----

One, down, two, three, stop—and she is standing on the ground floor of the Burrow, looking around.  Upon the mantle stands Mum’s clock.  Bill and Charlie are at a 125 degree angle where the “Abroad” setting is and everyone else is pointed vertically at “Home.”  All state “Safe” upon the hands and she smiles a bit as she listens to her own breathing.

She hears footsteps behind her and she wonders whether it’s one of her brothers coming to get a drink, but is surprised to see Hermione standing behind her.  This has to be a dream, because Hermione can’t be here; she’s supposed to be in Asia with her family this summer.  And of course it’s summer (it has to be) or else Ginny wouldn’t be at the Burrow; she’d be at Hogwarts.  But she doesn’t understand; she always dreams of home, and Hermione certainly isn’t home.

The other girl moves towards her and she retreats.  Hermione is saying something, she realizes, but she can’t quite hear the words.  They sound more like the notes to a song she heard once, but she can’t remember where.  It was foreign and exotic, and as interesting as it was, she didn’t fancy it—it was too newdifferentunfamiliar, and she prefers the old music Mum and Dad like to play late at night.

Hermione doesn’t belong.  She’s a messy painting of earthen hues, all sienna and ginger and thick Irish cream, and Ginny can’t stand how sweet she would be upon her tongue.  But she keeps advancing and there is nowhere to back up now.  She feels like

_reaching out and letting her white fingers travel over that golden skin, to watch as their hair tangles together like a braided tassel_

screaming and telling her to go away, but she just watches as Hermione comes closer and closer, lips still moving.

Then the other girl stops and her eyes are wide and glassy, so dark and rich, like the chocolate Fred and George always give her for Christmas.  She can’t understand why Hermione has suddenly stopped, but she breathes a sigh of relief before she feels warmth running over her hand.  When she looks down, there is blood over her hands and something she’s holding is plunged into Hermione’s stomach.

The other girl falls backwards, lying in a bed of wizard red upon Mum’s neatly polished floor.  Hermione is still warm to the touch and her lips are soft,

_the touch like sweet honey and everything is so warm and right and Hermione feels like blessedsafe home_

so unlike the hard floor beneath her knees, and Ginny thinks it will be all right.  Because Hermione is red like her now and this is just a dream, because she only dreams of home.


End file.
